Hysterical Blindness
by Rednih
Summary: It's stupid and cruel and painful, but that's the way it is. Sequel to 'Vision' and part of the 'Adam Lives!Verse.'


Dusk. Clearing 10 Miles South of the Hospital.

* * *

><p>This is only the second funeral he's ever been to—first one for a hunter.<p>

He keeps coming back to the smell, the stench. He'll start to get used to it, and then suddenly a wave of it will hit the back of his throat a certain way and he has to fight the urge to cough. Fight it, because no one else is coughing. Sam's silently crying. Bobby's holding his hat in his hands and looking down at his feet.

Dean just stands there, silent and stony as a statue.

None of them appear to be affected by the smoke itself, though, so Adam blinks rapidly and digs his fingers into his pant legs and refuses to break.

Eventually the flames die down. Bobby puts his hat back on, touching each of them on the shoulder before walking away. Sam's tears slow, and when Adam glances over again a few minutes after that, it's ironically to the sight of a tear sliding down Dean's cheek—like he's taken up the crying Sam finished, like someone should always be crying silently for John.

Adam feels like crying all right, but only because of the reek of burning flesh and the smoke pouring off the corpse. That makes him a bad person. He knows that, but no one else has to. They'll all think it's emotion and loss making his eyes red.

It isn't. Truth is, Adam considers Bobby more of a father to him than he ever has John Winchester. It's stupid and cruel and painful, but that's the way it is. John hadn't ever really been around enough for them to get to know each other. Adam can't even say what the guy's sense of humor was like, or what foods he favored. He doesn't know anything beyond the basics.

Like, he enjoyed hunting. A lot. Like, he wasn't a big fan of keeping in touch, or sharing information. Like, he missed his wife something terrible.

Like, he never really looked Adam in the eyes ever, just kind of glanced at his face and then turned his head away again.

Adam will probably miss the idea of a father more than the real thing. That door's shut now, forever. Sure, there's Bobby, but as much as Adam loves the ol' guy he's not Adam's dad and he never will be. Not really.

They stay there, the three of them, until the fire's completely gone, until it's out, until whatever was left of John is gone forever. Adam doesn't really talk to God per se, but he sends up little wishes and pleas now and again.

He says a mental goodbye to the guy. He wishes his spirit well, and hopes something fierce John's up there with his Mary, and Adam's mom. He hopes John will look after his sons and what friends he's left behind.

"Look after Dean," Adam silently mouths when he's sure neither of the brothers is looking his way.

There's a grave all ready for the remains, just behind the pyre. They'd all taken turns digging it earlier, like some kind of ritual or final gesture. When the fire's out, Sam moves forward. He crosses the few feet between where the three of them are standing and where the ash and bone is, at the last second looking back to Dean.

But Dean doesn't move, doesn't twitch, doesn't even acknowledge the fact Sam's looking at him with this pained, pleading expression. Dean just stands there.

So Adam takes a deep breath and before he knows it he's across and standing next to Sam. They share a look, and then Adam dares to bring his hands up. They could use the shovels for this, or even just put on the work gloves again.

No. Not for this. That'd be wrong, cold, insulting, disrespectful. They'll do this with their own bare hands, and be better for the closure.

"On three," Sam whispers. "One, two. . . three."

They both push it and that's the final straw. The wood of the pyre collapses, taking with it the ash. Some dust and debris puffs upward, enough that they both back away quickly.

Another moment of silent awkwardness, and then suddenly Dean's pushing between them and bending down to pick up one of the shovels. Time to cover the grave. Time to lay this ghost to rest.

Dean positions the shovel, lifts some dirt from the heap to the side, and then just stops.

"Dean?" Sam asks quietly, worried. "You want some help?" And he's already moving towards the other shovel.

"No," Dean says, "I'll do it," and abruptly tosses the dirt down into the grave. Sam still goes to pick up the shovel, but Dean stops him, all but chewing him out with his low growl of, "I'll _do _it, Sam."

Adam doesn't think any of this is all that healthy, and the way Dean's acting just cements it for him. Anger, sadness, despair, that's what grief _is_, but Dean's almost vicious with his shoveling, and yet somehow detached. Even his rebuke to Sam just now, even that felt half-assed and routine. Dean's angry. Obviously. And, yeah, Adam saw a tear or two slide down his cheek earlier too, but. . .

He's acting weird, like Adam's never seen him act before, like either something really heavy's going on inside him, or nothing is. Adam doesn't know which is more worrying.

And he'll never get Dean to talk about it. That's one thing he's sure of now, when everything else is all up in the air. Dean doesn't talk about himself, at least not about anything important. He'll ask Adam personal stuff, if grudgingly and without even a bit of tact, but there's never any reciprocation.

Dean gives comfort all the time, subtly and skillfully like a master, but he never takes any. Adam's tried; Dean refuses. And if Adam pushes, tries even when all the signs are telling him to drop it, that's when what Dean does for a living really shows through.

He pushes him, Adam finds, and all he gets is a brick wall—if brick walls can look like they've seen his darkest fears and know how to make them all come true.

While Dean replaces the dirt, Sam looks about ready to start crying again. He even moves closer to Adam, sort of sidles up at one point like he's, well, like he's standing next to his brother at their father's funeral.

Soon, it's done. After what seems like maybe ten minutes, Dean's dropping the shovel and stepping back. Adam moves up, and Sam does the same on Dean's other side.

Sam seems like the logical choice to say the last words, but he doesn't do it. Dean's bad with words at the best of times, and Adam remembers what Bobby's told him of Sam and Dean's mother's death, about how freaked out John had confessed himself to be when Dean didn't talk for more than four months following the fire.

Makes sense then that it's Adam who speaks up.

"Here lies John Winchester," Adam starts, and Sam shoots him a look around Dean's back. Once he starts, though, it's like his mouth just opened on words already there. "Beloved father, and devoted husband." He pauses. "May he rest in peace.

"Goodbye, Dad."

* * *

><p>Bobby's. July. 2006.<p>

* * *

><p>He woke up early again. It wasn't deliberate. What guy his age <em>wanted <em>to be up at, _Jesus_, 6:38 in the morning?

It was the sounds coming from the yard that kept jerking him awake, the loud clanging and banging and sometimes the low growl of an engine. It seemed if Dean were awake, then they all would be.

Although who the hell knew if he ever actually _slept_? Adam's working theory was that Dean looked at his car as his life: if he could get the thing back in shape and under control, running like a well-oiled machine and looking as beautiful as the day it'd come off the line, then everything would be all right. He sure spent a helluva lot of time on the damn thing.

So, really pissed off that he was awake this early in the day during the summer, Adam got out of bed and shuffled into the empty bathroom across the hall. On his way, he heard the radio playing downstairs, which meant Bobby was up too.

Sam was probably still dead to the world. He never seemed to get up any time before noon these days, and sometimes not even then. Dean hardly slept, and Sam seemed to do nothing but.

Adam picked up his toothbrush and turned on the tap to wet the bristles, before carefully setting down a strip of toothpaste on 'em. One thing about Bobby, he sure didn't go to penny-pinching extremes when it came to certain things. Adam had never realized how much he took toothpaste for granted until he was forced to brush with whatever cheap-ass crap John picked up.

That and coffee. If Adam never had another cup of McDonald's so-called home brew ever again, it would be too soon. Drinking that stuff was like willingly downing ipecac.

He finished brushing, spit and rinsed out his mouth and the brush, and then set it back in the little holder on the counter. After taking a piss, he checked and there was still hot water, so Adam turned the shower on full blast and hopped in. There was Sam's body wash crap and shampoo and conditioner taking up space, and then Adam's and Bobby's bulk size store brand stuff. Dean either didn't have anything, or he took it with him after each time.

And Dean didn't really seem like the OCD type. But, then again, his hair was really short too, so maybe he just bummed Sam's "soap" and used it for everything. Hair and body.

Okay. Bad line of thought. Adam looked down at himself, and sighed. Yeah. Good morning to you, too.

He was in and out of the shower within 15 minutes, so he considered it a win. Getting dressed and heading downstairs, Adam paused on the stairs to just listen for a moment. The clanging had stopped outside, which meant either Dean was working underneath the frame, or he'd come insi–

" . . . eggs?" came Bobby's voice.

There was a low grumble from Dean, but Adam couldn't make out what his reply was. Taking a deep breath and then letting it out, he finished going down the stairs and swung around into the kitchen. Sure enough, Bobby was at the stove, manning the skillet with one hand and drinking what was probably his third cup of coffee by now.

Dean was at the table. Well, physically anyway. Mentally, he looked about a million miles away.

Like being around Dean could get any more uncomfortable for Adam, now he had to wonder just how much of Dean was really here.

And how much was still back in the hospital, or down in the ground.

"Hey, Kid," Bobby said, tiredly, "park it. Scrambled or sunny side up?"

"Scrambled's fine," Adam answered. Bobby smiled gratefully then turned back around to monitor the skillet. "Hey, Dean," he ventured after another moment of careful silence.

Dean flicked his eyes over to Adam's face, but didn't make eye contact. Then he went back to looking out the back door onto the yard. "Hey, Kid," he finally returned, quietly.

And that was it. That was about the extent of their conversations these days. Dean and Sam had been here for going on two weeks, and combined they'd probably said less than 100 words. And most of that would be from Sam. They were lucky to even get a look from Dean, let alone a 'Hey, Kid.'

All in all, Adam was beginning to look _forward _to going back to school. It was still more than a month away, but anything would be better than hanging around here. Even putting up with Jake Carmichael and his stupid jock cronies sounded appealing when faced with whatever this was from Sam and Dean.

Although Sam, he kinda got. That was guilt. Adam could see that plain enough. And Bobby was good about telling Adam stuff he needed to know, personal stuff neither Sam nor Dean would ever volunteer but that cropped up every now and then. Adam cared for the stupid bastards. He didn't want to step into something and hurt 'em just cos he didn't know and no one had ever told him.

So he sort of knew what Sam and John's relationship had been like. And then John died, and Sam—well, it was a no-brainer. Adam, he felt guilty too, 'bout his mom. He hadn't known what to do back then, would still be hard-pressed now to figure out the right way of ganking those fuckers, but Mom had– she'd. . .

She was dead. She'd died. And Adam hadn't. He was here, sitting and waiting for Bobby to finish breakfast. So, yeah, he felt a lot of fuckin' guilt about that, and the two of them had always gotten along. Really well. Mom was– she'd been awesome, best there ever was. No one had understood him like she had.

But Sam and John had had this dysfunctional relationship, and then John died in this weird way and now there was all this unresolved shit. Plus, Sam was a bit of a guilt-hoarder anyway, with his girlfriend's death and the way that'd turned out.

No surprise there.

It was Dean who Adam worried about. Sam would probably get better about everything. Adam had. It would get easier. Few months from now, Sam would be able to joke and laugh and not feel like a heartless jerk because he could and John couldn't anymore.

Dean just looked empty. Adam guessed there had to be guilt rolling around in there somewhere, but he hadn't seen any sign of it. At the funeral-thing, Dean had looked angry and lost, but even that wasn't there anymore. Now he was like a shell. Empty. He didn't scowl, or glare or roll his eyes, or sneer. Adam didn't think any of 'em were quite at the point of laughing yet, but Bobby could muster up a smile now and then. Even Sam, the other day, he'd dimpled a little when Bobby's new puppy had stuck its head out of one of the empty grocery bags. Not a smile, but he'd at least seen the humor and sheer cuteness in what's one day gonna be a massive guard dog now playing around and jumping in paper sacks.

But Dean. . .

When Bobby told Adam what had happened back at the hospital, he could remember freaking the fuck out. John was dead? What the fuck? _How_?

And he'd also really been nervous about Dean somehow letting it slip that Adam was a freakin' perv and they were kicking him to the curb. He even got it together long enough to pack up all his shit and stow his bag in Bobby's trunk. So, at least that way, after the guy found out the truth when they went to the hospital, Adam'd have time to dash down and retrieve it before they all went ballistic and reported him to Child Services or whateverthefuck.

Never happened.

Adam had sat in the room with the three of them, Dean's hospital room, for 45 minutes. He'd been so nervous, his leg wouldn't stop bouncing and by the end of it his fingernails were pretty much a bloody mess. But, nothing. Dean hadn't said a word about it.

After that, Adam had been paranoid enough that he'd thought it meant Dean was just not telling for some strange reason. Because Dad was dead, and they all knew Adam had nowhere else to go? Damned if he knew, but also damned if he'd ever jeopardize having a home for telling the truth. Fuck that. If they weren't gonna call him on it, then he wasn't gonna admit to it.

Dean was a good guy. Maybe he'd understood that this. . . it wasn't like Adam was. . . it didn't mean things had to _change_.

But now he knew all that worry had really been for nothing. Dean wouldn't tell what had happened—because he didn't know. He'd been unconscious, on Death's door. He _couldn't_ remember. Dean not looking at him, not making eye contact anymore, that had less to do with that he couldn't stand the sight of such a fucked-up pervert, and more to do with the fact he couldn't meet anyone's eyes. Dean never looked Bobby in the face, or Sam, or the police, or any of the doctors who'd been around when he'd still been in the hospital.

It wasn't Adam; it was _Dean_. And maybe that should make things easier. Dean didn't know how weird his stupid fucking half-brother was, so Adam could just pretend his whole confession had never happened and everything was back to how it was.

Except that it wasn't. Everything was all different, and Adam couldn't figure out why when he'd realized Dean didn't know anything about anything. . . why he'd felt sad instead of relieved.

* * *

><p>On Tuesdays, he and Bobby would get into one of the cars and drive to town. It was supply day, Tuesday, and it wasn't that exciting but at least it was something to <em>do<em>. Sometimes, Bobby even let him drive. Technically, Adam could anyway cos he had a Learner's Permit, but it still always felt like something special.

This Tuesday was the first one they'd do with any company besides just each other. Last night at supper, Bobby had mentioned it to Sam and Dean, maybe hoping to get a reaction or something out of them. Well, Sam had responded, said he'd like to go if that were all right.

Dean hadn't said a word, not that any of them had really been expecting otherwise. Dean never said anything, at least not with his mouth.

"Ready?" Bobby asked suddenly, and Adam turned to see him at his right.

Adam nodded, glancing away from Bobby but steadfastly keeping his eyes off the other person outside in the yard, too.

"Sam's just finishing up the dishes," Bobby went on, answering the question he hadn't asked. "Be out in a minute."

Adam gave another nod, and then it was just the two of them standing there. The sun was out in full force, and even at ten in the morning it was already fucking hotter than hell. Adam wasn't quite sweating yet, but give him a few minutes more of baking and he'd be well on his way.

"You wanna drive today?" Bobby asked him quietly, and something about his tone of voice made Adam turn and look at him.

"Yeah," he responded. "Sure."

Bobby just nodded. Still, there was something in his face and voice that pinged Adam's radar. He didn't know what was up, only that something was.

So he asked cos none of them ever just told him stuff without making him dig it out of 'em—always with the digging and picking. Every single one of them was like that. Sam, Dean, Bobby, they all kept their mouths shut about everything important, everything personal. Even John had been like that, maybe especially John. Adam wondered if he himself did that, too, just locked all his shit up tight. He didn't think he had when he was little, but that was probably just. . . cos of Mom. She'd never let him get away with anything.

"What's up?" he asked, and Bobby sighed. He took off his hat and turned it around a few times. He slapped it back on his head and sighed again. He stuck his hands on his hips and shook his head. Basically, Bobby did his whole little routine trying to put Adam off, make him forget what he'd asked. Nuh-uh, Adam thought. Not this fucking time, Dude. "C'mon, what is it?" he urged.

Bobby's eyes darted off to the side, to a point sort of over and beyond Adam's shoulder, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what was bugging the guy now. It's what was always bugging the guy now, what bugged all of them: Dean.

"Think that boy'll be okay here on his own?" Bobby eventually asked, saying it so quietly Adam thought it pretty much counted as a whisper.

"What? Yeah," was Adam's automatic response, out of his mouth before he even thought about it. 'Course Dean would be okay. Why wouldn't he?

Why– why wouldn't Dean, who'd barely said anything at all in the weeks he'd been here and whose– whose dad had just died, be okay on his own?

Yeah, that was a hard one. Fuck.

Adam frowned, turning to look over his shoulder too, back at where Dean was banging and clanging and ratcheting that car of his. "I don't know," he finally answered, amending that stupid little kid's response he'd given before. "He wouldn't—do anything stupid, would he?"

" 'M not sure," Bobby said real low, that same weird note in his voice.

And wasn't that just the perfect rundown of the situation right now? Uncertainty abounded.

Wasn't that Adam's whole world right there in a nutshell?

"God, I fuckin' hope not," he finally muttered, just as Sam came out of the house.

But he wasn't _sure_.


End file.
